Snippet #1465408

Lionel pulled the silken cloth off the blade and wrapped long, strong fingers around the cool, curved hilt of the sword, giving it an experimental swing. Although he'd been warned enough times by his father not to practice with his sword indoors, Lionel couldn't resist the beautiful weapon. It had arrived from the forge yesterday, a gift from his father to commemorate whatever occasion today was. Lionel had forgotten. He didn't put much stock in the going-ons of court or the politics of the day; it was all useless mummery that bored him to the point of tears. He was good enough at politics; half the lords of the court still thought Lionel was the kindest, most gallant young man in existence, while the other half was so scared of his family that they dared not challenge him to his face.

The blade whistled through the air, one, twice as he twirled the sword around him, coming dangerously close to lopping the posts off his bed. Balanced. The steel rippled slightly on both sides, allowing for increased surface area and versatility. Natural. It was light, excellently forged, yet heavy enough that Lionel had some form of control. Nice to look at. The hilt had been inlaid with the signature black stones of the Damian family- obsidian and onyx, worth just as much as gold in its own, dark way. There was not a trace of gold in the hilt- or anywhere on the sword, for that matter. The blade was Valyrian steel, the hilt silver and iron. Lionel knew as much as anyone what that signified. The time of the Lannisters is over. House Damian now holds the Iron Throne. In short, a good sword.

It deserved a name. Lionel looked at the cruel, dark blade, wondering what word captured the essence of the weapon. The obsidian hilt was chilling enough to send shudders up his page's spine. Even Lionel, incapable of moral feelings as he was, could sense the sword's cold maliciousness when he swung it through the air. It was not a noble sword, it was an evil one. It both frightened and suited him. It was a sword which no man could wield without fearing losing his soul. "Night", he decided. It would be named Night.

Too bad he couldn't use it in the melee held later today.

"You must demonstrate your valiance at this tourney," his father had told him insistently earlier that day. "Don't disappoint me. It was about the only time his father talked to him, when there was some political objective to be achieved or when Lionel had somehow failed to meet standards. And there were so many standards Lionel had to meet today- he was required to to win the tourney, to declare Isabel Greyhardt the goddess of love and beauty, to win her hand before the lords of the Seven Kingdoms, to forge a political alliance that would cement his father's hold on the throne for as long as the Greyhardts were alive...

All things that Lionel had absolutely no interest in doing.

It was little wonder that the Damian heir was such an embittered, abrasive individual. He had spent half his life trying to live up to a role that he didn't want, without getting any proper recognition from his father in return for his efforts. King Damian cared more about the throne than he did his children, and had never once taken notice of Lionel other than to scold him for what he was doing wrong. He had to be kinder to their political allies, had to stop smirking in that impudent way of his, had to cut the "goddamn improper mane of hair", had to learn more about the economy, had to delegate military campaigns to other individuals and focus on how to rule from the throne. Lionel hated it. He wasn't a barbaric, warlike individual, but he loved the strategy and manipulation that went into fighting a war. Running a kingdom? Not so much.

Throwing a coal-colored cloak over his shoulders, he headed into the throne room where his mother and father were already waiting- and Raban as well. Lionel hadn't been too happy when their father had made Rab his squire; in his opinion, Rab was too distracted, too disinterested, and too goddamn kind. It was something Lionel could never understand about Rab- or Adelaide, for that matter. They were so emotional, so demanding of love and affection. As the first Damian child, Lionel had been raised to fulfill his role as the heir. He didn't have the patience for economics or history, but despite his numerous please to quit, to let Rab rule the kingdom if he could just lead the army, King Damian had always forced him back to his seat. At first, it had hurt, the fact that his father couldn't care less what he thought. But then Lionel had realized that it didn't matter how he felt, or what he wanted to do; his feelings had always been repressed, ignored, to the point where Lionel concluded that he shouldn't have to care about other's feelings either. He'd learned to look at the world through cynical, mocking eyes, never taking anything for granted. And Father thinks its my fault that I'm so rude.

He slouched in his seat next to his father's, resting his chin on one hand. I'm going to give it three, two…

"Straighten up," his father snapped, shooting him a glance. Lionel reluctantly pulled himself upright. Two seconds. That's a record.

But the king wasn't finished. "You are the heir to the throne," he said in that deep, sharp voice of his that always made Lionel feel like killing someone. I could do it right now, just reach up and slit his throat. Kingslayer, they'd call me. Wouldn't that be ironic? But no, that wouldn't do me much good...the gods hate kinslayers, as irrational as it is.

"What happens when the Greyhardts see that they're about to marry their daughter off to some long-haired, rebellious idiot who can't keep his back straight?"

A wry frown twisted across Lionel's face. "I don't want to wed Isabel Greyhardt," he grumbled, tapping his fingers on his armrest. He really didn't want to be here. Damn the tourney and damn Isabel Greyhardt. "The stupid wench reminds me of a sheep. And why does she smile all the time? It's weird."

King Damian made an impatient noise. "And you're a fool. Isabel Greyhardt is regarded by many to be the most beautiful maid in the Seven Kingdoms- she'd suit you much better than the whores you're likely to wed if you had your way."

Lionel's face flushed with anger. Sometimes he wondered if it would be better to be completely ignored, like Raban was, than to face this constant criticism. Lionel was a mere seventeen- old enough to be married, yes, but not old enough to be interested. Wedding Isabel would bind him to a life of misery, a life where he would have to pretend daily to be kind and gallant and everything else that the Greyhardts would expect him to be. And if he left her too long while travelling on a military campaign, then she would mope and send him annoying letters. If he came back from a military campaign, she would throw a feast for his return and shower him with affection. And affection made Lionel very uncomfortable. He didn't know what to do with it. And heavens forbid any talk of children…the annoying little bastards…

It was all just so annoying.

"And be civil at least to the Winslers," King Damian said sharply while he still had his son's attention. "We don't need another brawl between you and Jamie."

Lionel rolled his eyes. "Whatever you say, Father." He fixed his eyes on the empty hall, listening alertly to the sounds of footsteps a short distance away. Let's just have them come here and get the formalities over with. Then the tourney could start, and Lionel could lose himself in the blind rage that always came with fighting. One could only hope that he didn't accidentally kill anyone.